


Target: Aveline Jones

by void_star



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (much to Hydra's chagrin), ADHD!Bucky, Abuse, Cold War era Winter Soldier, Everybody Lives, External Ballistics, Gen, Standard Winter Soldier Warning Package, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_star/pseuds/void_star
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>But she’s eleven. </i>
</p>
<p>“…why her?” </p>
<p>Asking that sort of question was against the rules—or at least a good way to get in trouble—but the soldier didn’t understand what was going on.  They were supposed to be the good guys, and <i>good guys didn’t murder children.  </i></p>
<p>————</p>
<p>Or, the Winter Soldier is not a mindless killing machine, no matter how much Hydra likes to think so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Target: Aveline Jones

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dirgewithoutmusic (ink-splotch) and Kordalien for betaing, and DexxxtroDNA for helping with some of the research

“Poplawski eliminated. No complications during the mission,” said the soldier. “One complication post-mission, during the equipment check.”

“You left something behind again,” said Vasily Karpov. “What was it this time?”

“The Dragunov,” said the soldier, looking sheepish.

Vasily swore profusely.

The soldier didn’t flinch, but he went very, very still.

“We sent you to the best training facility in the world, gave you biological and cybernetic enhancements that _no one_ else has—and you just left the rifle behind,” Vasily muttered. “The cost of feeding your ridiculous metabolism is bad enough, I do _not_ need the cost of equipment replacement on top of that.”

Vasily slid his hand down his face, sighing. He couldn’t wrap his head around how the soldier had managed to forget the sniper rifle, but the mission had gone well other than that, and the soldier clearly understood that he’d messed up. A few small mercies against a backdrop of strict discipline helped to cement the soldier’s loyalty.

“You have a mission scheduled in the United States; there isn’t time to properly reinforce your conditioning before then,” said Vasily.

The soldier’s whole demeanor shifted; Vasily watched as relief bloomed across his face.

“ _Try_ not to embarrass us in front of Zola’s friends.”

The soldier nodded.

* * *

“The KGB should have agents in the area who can pick up the rifle,” said Sasha, Vasily’s protégé.

“Yes, but it means I have to explain to Yuri Vladimirovich how my assassin can be smart enough to shoot the target through a wall, yet stupid enough to leave his damn rifle behind,” said Vasily.

* * *

In America, they had a chair almost exactly like the one in Russia. The soldier ran his fingers along the armrest, feeling the slightly different pattern of wear.

A technician fiddled with a contraption wrapped around the soldier’s head while various men in lab coats meandered around, and the soldier still knew the exact moment Zola entered the room from somewhere behind him. Zola’s gait sounded slower and more labored than the soldier thought it should; he wanted to turn to look, but the technician was still adjusting the contraption.

One of the lab coats injected something into his flesh arm. The soldier’s alertness slowly melted, and his brain felt like molasses. He thought he saw the lab coat walk out the door but he wasn’t sure.

A young man with blond hair strode into the room; the soldier had never seen him before, but some instinct said that the young man was a pretentious gasbag who always spoke in speeches.

“One moment…” said the technician, who was still adjusting the contraption.

The soldier felt a snap of pain, and his body jolted.

“There.”

The young man smiled like a politician. “Hello, my name is Alexander Pierce, and we’re going to change the world together…”

* * *

“We want you to take out one target: Aveline Jones.”

Pierce handed a file to the soldier, who tried to focus on that and not the fact the he could hear Zola breathing somewhere behind him.

“She’s currently a student; she has above-average intelligence and four years of martial arts training. No formal intelligence training, but both her parents work at SHIELD, so we can’t count on a lack of informal training. Included in that file is a map showing her usual routes between home, school, and her extracurriculars…”

Pierce started describing Jones’ weekly schedule and preferred leisure activities, but the soldier didn’t turn to the map. He was fixated on the first page.

_DOB: April 19th, 1959_

The soldier didn’t know what year it was now, but in the picture Jones didn’t look like she could be any older than thirteen, and even that was stretching it.

“…of course, during school she’s a sitting duck in a classroom with lots of windows. A rookie assassin could kill her, but you’re one of the few operatives in the world who could do it without leaving any evidence—“

“What year is it?” the soldier blurted out.

As soon as the words left his mouth he knew that he’d screwed up by interrupting. Pierce looked at the soldier, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. The soldier averted his eyes in response to the silent warning.

“1970,” said Pierce.

_Eleven. She’s eleven years old._

The soldier felt sick.

“We’ve gathered blueprints for some of the nearby buildings, but only the ones we were confident we could get without leaving any trace. This mission is going to result in one hell of an investigation,” said Pierce. “You want blueprints for another building, you’ll have to get them yourself.”

_But she’s eleven._

“…why her?”

Asking that sort of question was against the rules—or at least a good way to get in trouble—but the soldier didn’t understand what was going on. They were supposed to be the good guys, and _good guys didn’t murder children._

“Her mother’s behavior is unacceptable, so we need to give her a push in the right direction,” said Pierce.

His tone was mild, but his body language had become more threatening and his face had a half-amused watchful expression that probably meant the soldier was on very thin ice.

_But she’s eleven._

The soldier’s handlers were reasonable with corrective measures; he just had to keep his head down and stay compliant and the wipes would be the only thing that hurt.

“If the mother’s the problem, why not kill _her_ instead?”

_…fuck._

“Aren’t you inquisitive today.” Pierce chuckled. “You’re too brain damaged to remember your own name, but you think you understand all the strategic considerations that go into your mission assignments?”

The soldier held very still.

“Well?” said Pierce. “I asked you a question.”

“I don’t think I understand mission assignments,” said the soldier. “But she’s eleven.”

“So?” said Pierce, looking at the soldier like he was a particularly dimwitted creature who was failing to communicate adequately.

The soldier couldn’t move except to shake. Failure to answer a direct question would mean corrective measures. Lying would mean corrective measures. Telling Pierce what he was actually thinking would mean corrective measures.

A hint of impatience started to show on Pierce’s face. The soldier panicked.

“Killing children is wrong.”

Pierce took three large steps away from him and signaled the technicians. The soldier was frozen in place as the restraints on the chair closed around his arms. There was a tight sensation around the soldier’s chest, despite the lack of physical restraint there, which made it hard to breathe.

“The human race is facing the threat of nuclear annihilation, and you’re concerned about one child?” said Pierce. “You understand how that works, right, the USA and the USSR blow each other up directly and then the radioactive fallout spreads across the whole globe. _Billions_ of people would die, either immediately or over the course of months, years, as the radioactive particles in food, water, and air take their toll on the human body. And all it takes is one slip-up. All it takes is _one_ person in power making the wrong decision.”

_…but she’s eleven._

The soldier couldn’t seem to get enough air.

“Do you know how many children there are in the Soviet Union? In the United States? In the world? Because I may not know the exact figure, but I can tell you this: it’s a lot more than one. Are you really going to sacrifice all of them— _all_ of them—because you’re not willing to get your hands dirty?” said Pierce. “The fate of the world depends on a delicate balance of political forces. Minds a lot more brilliant than yours spend _years_ analyzing the factors at play, the possible outcomes, in order to figure out what needs to be done to keep that balance intact.”

There was something _wrong_ with what Pierce was saying, but even if the soldier could pin down what it was, there was no way he could tell Pierce.

“You do care about the fate of the world, don’t you? You’re not the kind of short-sighted fool who thinks arbitrary lines are more important than the greater good?” said Pierce.

“…sorry,” the soldier managed.

“You can’t even sit still and listen respectfully when people are talking to you, and you accuse _me_ of making ethical oversights?” When the soldier didn’t immediately respond, Pierce continued. “You don’t actually think I would condone killing a child if it weren’t absolutely necessary, do you?”

Direct questions needed to be answered, but the soldier didn’t know _what_ to think.

“Sorry,” he said, because that could be taken more than one way.

“I mean, what do you take me for, some kind of psychopath?” said Pierce, looking deeply hurt.

The soldier’s gut twisted. “Sorry.”

Pierce sighed. “You can’t expect me to forgive you just like that. You’re going to have to give a better apology than just the word ‘sorry’.”

The soldier wanted to go away, to be anywhere but here. Pierce hadn’t used the chair yet, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

“It’s a simple mission. Get into position, make the shot, get away clean. A trained monkey could do it,” said Pierce. “Do you think you can handle that?”

“Yes, sir.” The soldier’s throat was dry.

* * *

The soldier spent a lot of time on scouting and planning, but he could only drag that out for so long.

* * *

The soldier settled into position, body and rifle fitting together perfectly. He quickly scanned the classroom windows, then watched Jones through his scope. The soldier pulled out a small notebook and pen, checked his thermometer, barometer, and hygrometer, and started to jot down calculations. He looked around at the pieces of twine he’d tied onto various structures during the planning phase, and estimated wind velocity from their motion.

Then he waited. Making the shot when there was lots of traffic—like lunchtime, or when everyone went to pick up their kids from school—would let him get further away before law enforcement made it to the area.

Lunchtime came and went. The soldier just continued to update his calculations based on changes in wind and temperature.

The last class ended. The sudden chaos of all the students standing up to leave disoriented the soldier; his breathing sped up.

_Get a grip, this is the same thing they did in-between classes. The target will disappear, then re-emerge._ The soldier pointed his rifle towards the front entrance of the school building, while continuing to visually scan the rest of the environment.

The soldier checked that the wind had not changed in the last five minutes, and reminded himself of how he would have to correct the shot. Everything was lined up, practically speaking, but he still felt disoriented and unsettled, as if he were forgetting something important.

Jones walked out the front entrance.

She was talking with another girl while she walked. Her clothes—little blue dress over a ruffled white shirt, not practical for sparring or combat—were completely straight through the torso; no curves to accommodate yet. Her light brown skin was completely unblemished; no pimples yet either. If the martial arts training her file referred to showed in her stride, the soldier couldn’t see it past the freely expressed emotions that danced through her body language.

Jones made a silly face at her friend, then giggled.

Uncertainty turned to resolve, like a super-saturated solution suddenly crystallizing, and the soldier knew what he had to do.

* * *

Aveline and her friend Rebecca wove through the crowd of their fellow students.

“There’s an art to it, right? You have to send the teacher off on a tangent without making it seem like you’re trying to avoid the test…” said Rebecca.

Aveline rolled her eyes. “You realize this just means we’ll have to take the test on Monday.”

“But that’s not for three more days,” Rebecca grinned.

As they kept walking, the number of other students around them thinned.

“It’s the same amount of test-taking!” Aveline glanced over at Rebecca. “Except instead of getting it over with—“

A gunshot rang out.

Aveline looked around wildly, seeing a bullet hole in the side of the school building but not the shooter. Rebecca grabbed Aveline’s hand and ran for the nearest thing that looked like cover, which was a large hedge. More shots fired while they were running. Rebecca slowed down once they were behind the hedge; Aveline tugged her friend’s hand to keep going until they made it to a brick wall, remembering what her parents told her about visual cover being different from protection.

There was one final shot just as they made it to safety, and then everything was quiet. Aveline gradually became aware of the sounds of other students screaming and panicking.

* * *

Sometime later, when police sirens were audible in the distance, Aveline noticed that a lock of her hair had been cut short by one of the bullets.

* * *

Pierce was furious when he stormed into the room, yet the soldier felt strangely peaceful.

It was the same thing he’d felt since pulling the trigger; even the knowledge that he’d left the barometer behind by accident couldn’t make a dent in it.

“Mission report!” Pierce almost looked pissed enough to get his own hands dirty.

_Wouldn’t that be something._

“The shot was miscalculated. Four further attempts were made, in rapid succession. None were successful,” said the soldier.

“You missed. You missed _five times_. How could you _mis_ s?”

“The shot was miscalc—“

“Bullshit. You don’t make mathematical errors. And the technicians tested your cognitive abilities before the mission briefing, with no abnormalities,” said Pierce. “The shot wasn’t miscalculated, so what _the hell_ happened back there?”

_Well,_ something _was miscalculated._

* * *

When Alexander was first told about his assignment as the Winter Soldier’s handler, Zola assured him that it wasn’t a human being anymore. Just a lump of flesh, with some historical quirks. When, after spending days studying old footage of Captain Rogers so he could imitate the icon’s mannerisms, Alexander completely failed to win the Soldier’s loyalty and admiration, he considered it proof that Bucky Barnes was well and truly dead.

After he saw the Soldier bite a lab assistant’s finger off, he considered it proof that whatever that _thing_ was, it wasn’t human. 

* * *

Alexander looked at the Soldier, and the Soldier stared back.

Weapons didn’t stare back.

Weapons didn’t defy orders.

But people did.

“You deliberately missed five times,” said Alexander.

Sergeant Barnes didn’t say anything, just kept looking at Alexander with burning eyes.

The chair had disciplinary settings, as well as erasing ones. Alexander turned to the lead scientist. “You know what to do.”

He was careful to keep up his calm façade until he was out of the room, even when the screams made him want to flinch.

Two corridors away, Alexander let himself slump against the wall. He could still faintly hear screaming. He started running through the events leading up to the Winter Soldier’s rebellion, trying to figure out where it had gone wrong—

“That was _fascinating_ , was it not?”

Alexander nearly jumped; he hadn’t heard Zola walk up.

“I should have cracked down harder after it objected to the mission, that might have prevented—” started Alexander.

Zola waved his hand. “It might have, it might not have; we could wonder about that forever. You acted in line with our current rules, and our current rules proved insufficient. The question is, _how_?”

“The Russians spent four days on conditioning, training, and letting it recover from the side-effects the wiping process; then it spent four days on the Poplawski mission. Eight days. Then about half a day travelling to us, two, two-and-half days for re-conditioning and testing and such, and seven days scouting and planning before going to make the shot—“

“So about two and a half weeks since his last wipe,” said Zola.

“How is that—the manual, _your_ manual, says the asset should be safe to use for up to three months after being wiped,” said Alexander.

“Indeed. Like I said, it is fascinating. He has never malfunctioned this early before; not since we fixed the major problems with the stereotactic electrosurgical device.” Zola looked thoughtful. “I suppose the SSR never did send him to kill children.”

Alexander thought it was weird that Zola referred to the Winter Soldier as ‘he’ when the creature wasn’t really sentient, but wondered if he should follow suit; mimicry was often politically advantageous.

One the scientists walked up to them. “It’s going to be time to turn off the current soon.”

Alexander nodded and went with him. Hoarse screaming grew louder as they drew closer to the maintenance room.

When Alexander saw the Soldier thrashing in its restraints, rubber mouth-guard between clenched teeth, face streaked with tears, he had a momentary feeling that what they were doing was wrong. He stomped on that feeling.

One of the scientists pushed a button, and just like that the Soldier stopped thrashing and screaming. Shuddering gasps filled the silence. Alexander walked closer as the equipment retracted from the Soldier’s head, revealing small burns where the electrodes had been in contact with its skin.

Alexander shook his head and _tsk_ ed. “Oh dear, what _are_ we going to do with you?”

_If only that were actually a rhetorical question._

* * *

Peggy performed the sloppiest parking job she’d ever done in her life and leapt out of the vehicle.

“Aveline!” she called.

“Mom!”

Aveline came running up to Peggy, wrapping her arms around Peggy’s waist and squishing her face against Peggy’s chest. Peggy held her daughter tight.

After several seconds she let go and sank down into a crouch, putting her hands on Aveline’s shoulders.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Aveline nodded.

Peggy stroked Aveline’s hair, hesitating when she found shorter, singed hairs. Alarm bells went off in Peggy’s head. She quickly stood up and walked to the bakery across the street, clutching Aveline’s hand firmly, and steered her daughter into a chair in a corner that wasn’t visible from the windows.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” said Peggy.

She went to the counter and bought several pastries, partly to maintain a casual façade and partly because of the day Aveline had had. Peggy sat down next to Aveline and set the pastries on the table in front of her.

“Can you tell me what happened? Just what you remember.”

* * *

“Given enough time and resources, we _can_ adjust his programming to include child targets,” Zola said at the emergency secret meeting.

“Define ‘enough time and resources’,” said Vasily.

“Well…” said Zola.

“I thought we already did that,” said Pierce. “It took several rounds of, um, corrective measures, but it—he agreed that he should have completed the mission, and that killing children is sometimes necessary, and that he should always trust his handlers over his own judgment.”

Zola sighed. “He has a history of verbally complying long before he’s actually done fighting.”

“Oh, you mean like the time he swore allegiance to us, repeated back the propaganda we fed him, and followed every inane, arbitrary order we gave him, so we thought it was safe to attach the cybernetic arm?” said Ophelia Sarkissian, one of Zola’s friends from the war. “Like that time?”

Pierce looked at Zola blankly.

“As soon as he woke up after the surgery, he used his new appendage to strangle Dr. Beringer. We were fortunate the anesthesia had not fully worn off, or the soldier may have claimed more than one life that day,” said Zola.

“I don’t see the point. The Soviet Union has other assassins we can send if the target is too young for the Winter Soldier.” Vasily shrugged. “Black Widow agents are comfortable with everything.”

“Yeah, well, Hydra’s a little understaffed at the moment,” said Pierce.

“Which is all the more reason not to risk it,” said Sarkissian. “Last time it was Dr. Beringer; next time we might not be so ‘fortunate’.”

Zola looked deeply displeased, but didn’t say anything.

“Do you really not have other assassins?” asked Vasily.

“None who are as capable as the Winter Soldier,” said Zola.

“We could _fix_ that if you could remember your own damn procedure,” muttered Sarkissian.

Zola gave her a dirty look.

“Why don’t you just turn up the voltage on the stereotactic electro-whatsit, and wipe him more thoroughly?” asked Pierce.

“That’s not the chair works!” said Zola.

“You know what his point is. Damage the bastard’s brain so much he can’t even conceive of rebelling anymore,” said Sarkissian.

“Absolutely not. Last time we tried that he ended up so impaired he couldn’t do anything without prompting, and when we prompted him to do a task with more than two steps he forgot what he was doing partway through. And there was nothing we could do to fix it, except wait for him to heal,” said Vasily. “I don’t care _what_ our arrangement is, on paper the Winter Soldier belongs to the Soviet Union and I won’t let you break valuable property.”

There was awkward silence for a moment.

Pierce spoke up. “So we change the usage guidelines; no children. He’s still viable for most of the assassinations Hydra will need to do.”

_So, basically what I said two minutes ago._ Vasily rolled his eyes.

“Is he? Sure, this time it was just a sabotaged mission.” Sarkissian turned to Zola. “What if next time we get another massacre like in ’58? Your little vanity project has already cost Hydra more than enough personnel, and it’s not like we’re in a position to recruit openly.”

“How long did it take him to malfunction this time?” said Vasily.

“Two weeks and four days,” said Pierce.

“That limits the kinds of missions we can send him on,” Vasily grumbled. “But if Hydra doesn’t want the trouble anymore, the USSR would be more than happy to take sole ownership—”

“That will _not_ be necessary,” said Zola. “We will change the maximum time between wipes to two weeks; that is all.”

“Will we even be able to control him? What if this teaches him that if he just pushes hard enough, he can get his way?” said Sarkissian.  

“The memory wipes will take care of that. If we don’t tell him what happened, he’ll have no way of knowing,” said Zola. “His past is whatever we say it is.”

* * *

Aveline was safely home with Gabe, leaving Peggy to inspect the crime scene.

She didn’t like what she was seeing.

There were five bullet holes in a line. Two of the bullets had gone through the hedge on their way to the building.

Peggy walked toward the point where the hedge stopped and the brick wall started. There was a streak on the wall where one bullet had skimmed the edge on its way past, right at chest-height.

**Author's Note:**

> Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov was director of the KGB from 1967 to 1982. 
> 
> Vasily Karpov and Ophelia Sarkissian are borrowed from the comics. 
> 
> A thermometer, barometer, and hygrometer are for measuring temperature, air pressure, and humidity; these quantities can be used to calculate air density, which affects the amount of drag a bullet encounters. Bucky would have to know a lot of physical quantities in order to calculate the bullet's trajectory (distance between chosen firing position and school, characteristics of the rifle and ammo being used, direction of shot, etc), but air density and wind velocity are the ones that change unpredictably. 
> 
> The cognitive impairments Vasily describes are executive dysfunction and memory problems. "Executive functioning" refers to cognitive functions that govern other cognitive functions, and includes stuff like being able to "switch gears" easily, controlling where your attention goes, initiating tasks, making plans, etc. Bucky ended up with a dramatically impaired ability to initiate tasks on his own, so he needed external prompts to start anything. Not enough working memory, too much inattention, or inability to form new memories could all cause symptoms similar to the forgetfulness Vasily described. 
> 
> Symptoms* of ADHD include:  
> -Often loses things necessary for tasks and activities (e.g. school materials, pencils, books, tools, wallets, keys, paperwork, eyeglasses, mobile telephones).  
> -Often has trouble holding attention on tasks or play activities.  
> -Often does not seem to listen when spoken to directly.  
> -Often fidgets with or taps hands or feet, or squirms in seat.  
> -Often interrupts or intrudes on others (e.g., butts into conversations or games)  
> Pierce takes it a bit personally. 
> 
> *diagnosis is based on looking at the full list of symptoms and seeing if you can check off a certain number of them, so no single symptom is strictly necessary for a diagnosis


End file.
